Sectumsempra Redux
by cornu
Summary: My slashy, not particularly well thought out “reinterpretation” of Chapter 24. Spoilers HD slash.
1. Chapter 24: Sectumsempra Redux

Author's Note: I'm not going to claim that this is an original idea – I'm sure I was only one of about a million H/D fans who squealed with joy while reading Chapter 24, and then imagined scenes similar to what I've wrote. But anyway, you know how it goes... you feel as though something just has to be written, and then you write it.

SPOILERS for Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

x x x x x x

And so very quietly, as he had learned to do so well in his years of sneaking around, Harry pushed open the door. Moaning Myrtle was not in sight; Harry suspected she was still locked inside one of the cubicles, so Harry approached Malfoy, whose back was to the door. His head was turned downward and he clutched the sink with both hands, his knuckles even whiter than his silver-white hair. Harry's mouth involuntarily sprang open in astonishment: Malfoy was crying.

"No one can help me .. I can't do it .. I can't ... it won't work ... and unless I do it soon ... he says he'll _kill _me.."

"Oh, you poor boy," came Myrtle's voice from somewhere nearby, "it will be all right, don't you worry ... that's right, I'm here, I'm here to listen, it's all right..."

Malfoy continued to cry, sniffling and sputtering so loud that the echoes bounced off of the high porcelain-tiled walls of the bathroom. Harry remained frozen a few steps from the door, entirely unsure of what to do next. He wasn't quite sympathetic: he was sure that Malfoy had been scheming. He knew he would enjoy the look on Malfoy's face when he saw that he had witnessed him in this state, but he didn't look forward to the curses that would follow soon after – so Harry reached for his wand, and then cleared his throat.

Malfoy whirled around to face him, and Harry saw that his face was puffy and swollen: and there was that look of utter mortification Harry had prepared for. Malfoy grabbed for his wand but before he could even open his mouth Harry shouted "_Expelliarmus!_" and Malfoy's wand shot from his hand and clattered to the floor. But Malfoy did not move to get it, or say anything. Harry screwed up his face in slight confusion, and then said, without the firmness he'd been hoping to apply in such a conversation, "Malfoy, what have you been doing in the Room of Requirement? What are you plotting?"

"_Will you just get out of here!_" Malfoy said congestedly, but Harry moved closer, intending to wrest the truth out of him in his weakened state. Then he remembered Myrtle, who was now hovering over the tops of the cubicles, watching both of them intently.

"Myrtle, go away," Harry said. "Go away or I'll never come to see you again and neither will my friends."

"But –-" Myrtle started.

"GO!" shouted Malfoy, with such startling force that Myrtle immediately dropped from sight into one of the toilets.

"Malfoy," Harry said again, "What have you been –-"

Harry couldn't finish his sentence: Malfoy had suddenly turned back to the sink and collapsed upon it, sobbing. Bewildered, Harry found himself again unable to move. Malfoy must be really upset about _something_, he thought to himself, to have not attacked me instantly. Harry felt sure that his crying was somehow connected to whatever he'd been secretly planning. Suddenly, though, it seemed wrong to say something accusatory when Malfoy stood before him in such vulnerability.

So Harry moved slightly closer yet, and saw that Malfoy, leaning with his elbows braced against the sink, was clutching the wrist of his left hand with his right. He was shuddering, drawing long, loud, tearful breaths, and Harry saw that now Malfoy was bleeding: his fingernails had drawn blood from the fair, almost translucent skin of his wrist; it trickled into the sink.

"What the hell are you doing?" Harry said, tearing Malfoy's arms apart.

"I'm not – I can't..." Malfoy said, the thought spiraling into nothing. Harry had never seen him looking like such a mess, and though he was positive he'd pay for this encounter later, he hesitantly patted Malfoy on the shoulder.

Then, to Harry's incredible disbelief, Malfoy lunged towards him, and it took Harry a moment to realize – and then promptly deny the possibility – that Malfoy was kissing him. It was only for a very brief moment –- or perhaps it was a decade –- but when Malfoy unsealed his mouth from Harry's, he looked about as shocked, if not more so, than Harry did. After a moment of flabbergasted staring, Malfoy scrambled for his wand, picked it up, and yelled "Cruc—" and

Harry, not at all aware of it (since his body and mind seemed to be quite far away from one another at the moment), shouted "_Sectumsempra!_"

Great slashes suddenly appeared on Malfoy's face and arms and chest; he staggered forwards and then fell, blood pouring out of him faster than Harry was sure was normal.

"Oh no," said Harry, feeling sick, "Oh no, Malfoy, I'm sorry, I had no... oh God." He knelt next to Malfoy, who was already barely conscious, and tried to lift him. Bloodstains blossomed on the moldy tiles around Harry's legs; he could not gain traction on the wet floor and slid again and again to the ground as he desperately tried to help Malfoy to his feet.

He was too heavy. His eyes were now closed, and his robes were dark with blood. Harry's heart was thundering furiously in his chest. Panicked, he got to his feet, and said to Malfoy, with an air of helplessness, "Stay here. I'm getting somebody. Just hang on."

He backed out of the bathroom, his eyes still on Malfoy's limp, bleeding body, and then broke into a run. Just before turning the corner to the stairs, he flung his Invisibility Cloak over his head, after having managed to extract it from his bag while running: he didn't want to attract attention to himself in his blood-stained form. At the precise moment when he disappeared from view, to Harry's heart-stopping surprise, Snape rounded the corner swiftly and began to stride down the corridor in the direction Harry had just come from. Instinctively Harry had flattened himself against the wall; Snape stopped short, seeing the drops of blood in a staggered line all down the hallway. Harry was struck with a sudden jolt of hope: Snape would surely be able to help Malfoy.

Snape quickened his pace as he followed the trail of blood down the hall, towards Myrtle's bathroom. Harry realized that he could easily run away just then, but there was a ball of sickening fearfulness in his stomach; what Malfoy was seriously injured? Moreover, he knew that Malfoy would tell Snape that Harry had attacked him the moment he regained consciousness; he could not avoid claiming responsibility – nor did he want to, he thought to himself. He was the furthest thing from glad or proud of what he'd done – oh, curse that Half-Blood Prince – but he knew that he must face it.

He walked back to Myrtle's bathroom, where Snape knelt, murmuring incantations and prodding Malfoy's cuts with his wand. Harry tore off the Cloak and said, "Professor –"

Snape turned his gaze to Harry immediately. "You did this," he said. Harry felt the blood drain from his face; his eyes flickered to Malfoy, whose wounds were already half-healed. "And you fled."

"No, I – I was going to get help, I – I had no idea the spell was going to –" Harry had to catch his breath. He saw that Malfoy's eyelashes were fluttering; he opened his eyes weakly. Snape said nothing.

"Is he.. will he be all right?" Harry asked faintly. Snape gave him a piercing, incredulous look.

"I am taking Mr. Malfoy to the hospital wing," he said. "Please wait right here for me, Potter." He waved his hand over Malfoy's still reclined body once more; the slashes were already nearly gone, though the great volume of blood remained, now pooling in the tiled depressions of the bathroom floor. Snape lifted Malfoy up by his arms and led him into the hall; Malfoy did not break eye contact with Harry until they had turned away. He did not look angry, thought Harry, he looked afraid... pleading.

Harry did not know how long he stood frozen in the doorway. He stared absently at the grimy window pane, his mind reeling. The guilt of having attacked Malfoy so brutally subsided a little: it had looked as though he would be all right. Instead Harry focused on Malfoy's behaviour before the attack: the tears, the trepidation in his voice, the sudden, seemingly rescinded kiss. Harry's insides twisted almost painfully when he recalled it: Malfoy's hands on his neck were cold, but his lips were warm and hungry and Harry couldn't breathe, paralyzed by a sensation that he somehow knew he could not replicate with anyone else –

Then Snape returned, interrupting the thoughts that had just begun to draw warmth to certain parts of Harry's body.

x x x x x x

That evening, Harry took to hiding in the dormitory to avoid the glares of fellow Gryffindors, who had caught wind that the captain of their Quidditch team had detention on the day of the final match. When it came time to give Ron and Hermione the details of the attack, Harry did not feel ready to tell them what had really happened.

"I saw Malfoy on the map in the bathroom, alone. I went in there to try to catch him off guard. I asked him what he was up to in the Room of Requirement, and he attacked me. It looked like he was trying to use the Cruciatus Curse," he explained, hoping that he sounded genuine – it _was_ the truth, more or less. "The Sectumsempra spell was just the first thing that popped into my head... I had no idea it would be that bad."

"Malfoy deserved it," Ron said, offering Harry a Cauldron Cake. Harry refused it; since the incident in the bathroom, Harry had felt as though his stomach had vacated his body. "I'm surprised he didn't give you a worse punishment, though – you attacked his favourite student!"

"No, Snape knows Harry would never perform Dark magic like that on purpose," Hermione remarked. She had snuck into their dormitory to console Harry, and though she was supportive, the event had only bolstered her case against the Half-Blood Prince.

"He knew _something_ was up, though," said Harry. "I think he knows about the Half-Blood Prince. He was awfully suspicious about Ron's Potions book."

"Good thing about the defective quills, then," said Ron, chuckling.

"Yeah, thanks, Roonil," Harry replied, with a small smile.

"What did you do with the real book?" Hermione asked.

"It's in the Room of Requirement," Harry said, shifting his body to look out the window onto the grounds. The sun had just set and its final rays casted bands of yellow light across the grass and trees. He was desperate for night to come so that he could be alone with his thoughts.

"Malfoy knows you're onto him now," Hermione said reprovingly. "He'll probably waste no time telling his Slytherin cronies, too."

"D'you think that Malfoy would really try anything, though, now that he knows you're capable of slicing and dicing him without ever touching him?" Ron said with an edge of laughter in his voice.

Standing up suddenly, Harry said, "Hey, I'm going to take a bath in the prefects' bathroom. I think I still have some of Malfoy's blood caked under my fingernails." He gave a small wave and trudged down the stairs to the common room, where he was greeted by a number of displeased-looking seventh-years.

It was still quite early, too early for anyone to have gone to bed, but Harry found the prefects' bathroom quite unoccupied, and he was relieved to sink into the warm, deep, sweet-smelling water. He closed his eyes, and found that images of the Dark Mark were floating to the forefront of his mind. He remembered Malfoy clawing at the skin of his left arm, and it occurred to him that he had probably already been branded with the Mark. Somehow, in the few hours since everything had happened, the fierce hatred Harry had always harboured for Malfoy had dissipated almost entirely. Instead he felt sympathy, pity, awe, disbelief. Whatever Malfoy had been doing, it was only under threat of death.

At half past eleven, Harry awoke: he had drifted to sleep, not having realized just how tired he was. The bubbles in his bath had all reduced to a thin foam, and the water was lukewarm. Feeling wrinkly and bleary-eyed, Harry hoisted himself out of the bath, dried himself, and got dressed. Before leaving the bathroom he checked the Marauder's Map for a sign of any teacher wandering the corridors; practically automatically, after having done it so many times over the past few weeks, he located the dot labelled _Draco Malfoy_. The dot rested unmoving in the Hospital Wing, and, unsure as to why, Harry decided that he needed to stop there before going back to Gryffindor Tower.

With the Invisibility Cloak on, and his hair still rather wet, Harry made his way down to the Hospital Wing. He was just about to begin to ponder how to get inside unnoticed when Madam Pomfrey pushed open the great wooden doors, carrying a metal tray laden with various potion bottles, and retired to her office. Harry managed to slip in behind her as the doors closed.

The Hospital Wing was dark and empty, except for a single bed, in which, Harry assumed, Malfoy was sleeping. The room smelled as though candles had recently been put out. Still invisible, Harry tiptoed over to the bed where Malfoy lay, his form rising and falling as he breathed.

From what he could see, the gashes that the spell had made on Malfoy's face and arms had healed completely. He seemed to be sleeping quite deeply, so Harry sat on the edge of the bed, and watched as the faint breeze from the window blew Malfoy's pale hair about his forehead. Then, after checking for Madam Pomfrey, Harry removed his Cloak.

"Malfoy, I'm sorry," he whispered; though he knew Malfoy could not hear him, he also knew that he would never be able to confront Malfoy and say it to his face. How would he even arrive in a situation appropriate for an apology? –-He doubted whether Malfoy would ever allow Harry near him again when they were alone. "I never meant to use that spell, I didn't know what it did," Harry continued. "And I haven't told _anyone_, not a _soul_, what you were doing in there, or what... what happened. And... I'll never tell anyone."

Unsure of what else to say, Harry lapsed into silence, simply watching Malfoy sleep. He focused on Malfoy's features: his fine blond hair, as perfectly groomed as ever; his unblemished skin; his lips, which Harry suddenly longed to feel on his own again –

He stood up, puzzled by his feelings. Twelve hours previously, Malfoy had been his mortal enemy, and Harry had taken it upon himself to unravel whatever plan he had been cooking up. How could one confusing encounter reverse over five years of enmity?

Drawing the Cloak back over his body, Harry looked back at Malfoy once more. Feeling possessed by a new, unnamed feeling, he extended his hand and put it lightly to Malfoy's cheek. The sleeping boy drew a sharp breath, then opened his eyes and sat up. Harry stood completely still, invisible. He watched as Malfoy looked around the enormous darkened room, and then, having concluded that he had imagined the touch, fell back against the pillow.


	2. Chapter 25: Nunc Omnibus Recludimus

The next day was Thursday, and ripples of excitement concerning the upcoming Quidditch game, though slightly marred on the Gryffindor side by the news of the loss of Harry, were running through the school. Harry did his best to ignore the Slytherins who hissed at him when he passed them in the corridors, and Defense Against the Dark Arts was a nightmare, as Snape seemed to be blind and deaf to the constant insults and gestures thrown in Harry's direction by other students. Meanwhile, he also had to concentrate on calming down Ron, who had entered a state of frenzied anxiety as the final match drew nearer.

"It's all right, Ron, just control your breathing. Don't hyperventilate," Harry said soothingly to Ron on Friday morning, patting him on the back and offering him a flagon of pumpkin juice. Hermione was sitting opposite them at their table in the Great Hall, poring over a huge, yellowing library book, when she raised her head suddenly and said, "Look! Malfoy's back!"

Harry turned around and could see Malfoy entering the Great Hall, escorted by Pansy Parkinson and Snape. He looked healthy as ever, aside from the slight pallor Harry had noticed in his cheeks for the past several months.

"Well, Snape was really making a big deal over nothing, wasn't he?" said Ron. "Nothing's wrong with Malfoy now!"

"You should have seen him when the spell hit, though," Harry said, lowering his voice. "It was more blood than I've ever seen, I think. I really thought he was done for."

"So, do you still think he's a Death Eater, Harry?" Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well..." Harry took a long pause. He _knew_ Malfoy was a Death Eater, but a funny loyalty to Malfoy reared within him, preventing him from speaking about it further. Luckily the start-of-classes bell sounded, and Harry was thankful for the first time that Ron and Hermione hadn't been that keen on his suspicions.

x x x x x x

Later that night, Hermione prepared a Calming Draught for Ron, who had been nearing hysterics as the Quidditch match was less than twelve hours away. She and Harry sat silently by the fire, reading, until midnight when Hermione rose.

"Are you going to go to bed, Harry?" she asked him.

"Uh? Oh.. well... I'm not too terribly sleepy," Harry said, her question having roused him from intense concentration. "It's not as though I need to rest in order to prepare for Snape's detention," he added glumly.

"All right, goodnight then," Hermione said, shrugging, and marched up the spiral stairs to the girls' dormitories. Harry looked down at the book in his lap, which he had opened at random several hours ago and had been pretending to read. The only people left in the common room now were two third-year boys playing wizard chess whom Harry did not know. Repositioning himself on the armchair, Harry prepared to slip back into his thoughts, but was jolted by a loud, sudden CRACK!

Kreacher the house-elf appeared before Harry, the odious expression on his face illuminated by the flickering fire. The third-years in the other corner had stopped their chess game and were staring at the ugly little elf. Harry glared at them and they hastily turned their backs, whispering.

"Er, hello, Kreacher," Harry said, having forgotten that he'd assigned the house-elf the task of monitoring Draco Malfoy.

"Kreacher has a note from Master Malfoy," Kreacher said, removing from his filthy frock a piece of parchment folded into a small square. Harry immediately sprang forward and grabbed it and shoved it into his pocket.

"If Kreacher may give a word of warning, be aware that young Master Malfoy now knows that he is being followed by Kreacher," the elf said blandly.

"Okay, well, you can stop following him now, and tell Dobby to stop following him as well, then," Harry said quickly, urging the house-elf to disappear so that he could read Malfoy's note. Kreacher gave a resentful bow and vanished with another CRACK. Harry removed the folded note from his pocket and read it. It was only one line of text:

_Potter,_

_Trophy room, tomorrow midnight. ALONE._

After reading it over several times, Harry looked up. Then, smiling faintly, he remembered that this was not the first time Malfoy had requested to meet him in the trophy room at midnight. That was in their first year – God, was that long ago! In his hours of thinking Harry had recalled his very first encounters with Malfoy, when they had been eleven years old. When Harry met Draco Malfoy, he had been intimidated by how prepared Malfoy had been to make his acquaintance. He knew now that Malfoy had likely been instructed by his father to either forge an alliance with Harry, in order to persuade him to join the Death Eaters, or to regard him with utmost antagonism. Though the entire fight against Voldemort was rooted in revenge, in the memories of past horrors and betrayals, Harry suddenly found it absurd that both he and Malfoy had been preconditioned to hate one another by virtue of the grudges of another generation. We're both clever wizards, Harry thought, for Malfoy had caught on to my spies quickly enough. If everyone wasn't so fixed on blood, Malfoy and I might've been friends.

Harry thought of every taunt, hex and sneer he and his friends had endured over five and a half years at the hands of Malfoy and his underlings.

Then he thought of the sounds he heard in his third year, when approached by the dementors of Azkaban: the screams and pleading of his parents. Their swirling, spectral forms in that cemetery at the end of his fourth year: the juxtaposition of their visage with that of Voldemort, Harry's _true_ enemy. The death of Sirius less than a year previously: it stung him more severely than any conflict with Malfoy.

How petty their rivalry seemed, now. Dumbledore had clued him into this when he'd lectured him about getting Slughorn's memory after Harry had been obsessively tracking Malfoy with the Marauder's Map.

Harry shifted his thoughts. What did Malfoy want to meet him for? Did he want to duel? Was he preparing to set his minions on Harry? Should he tell Ron and Hermione?

He decided to sleep on that question. Apprehensive about the coming day but also exhausted, he dragged himself up the stairs, and collapsed into bed.

x x x x x x

Harry had been anxious about doing detention with Snape, suspecting that the professor had probably selected a particularly grueling chore for him, but he was merely ordered to sort records of old rule infractions and punishments for Filch. He hadn't mentioned anything to Ron and Hermione about Malfoy's note. He figured that if he divulged it to them later, he'd tell them that he didn't want to give Ron any more to worry about before the match.

The detention was frustratingly dull. Snape had evidently plotted it out more than Harry thought: many of the cards he was sorting featured descriptions of his father's and Sirius's antics during their school days. After some time Harry's eyes began to glaze, and by the end of it he was sure he'd mislabeled and disorganized more than half of the cards, but Snape appeared not to notice or care. Finally, just after one o'clock, he dismissed Harry, reminding him that he was to return in a week's time. As soon as he'd closed Snape's office door behind him, Harry began to run up to the main floor, to see if the Quidditch match was over yet.

When he reached the end of the castle nearer to the pitch and found that the field was empty, he ran up to Gryffindor Tower. His heart suddenly thumping in anticipation, he reached the Fat Lady's portrait and gave her the password.

To his relief and surprise, the common room exploded with laughter and cheerful sounds. Ron immediately shoved a bottle of butterbeer into his hand and Ginny launched herself at him out of nowhere, throwing her arms around his neck. He grinned at both of them, and said, "Well done, then! I knew you'd get it, I'm not so necessary after all –"

"Oh, Harry, don't be so modest!" said Romilda Vane from behind him, beaming. Harry could see Hermione smirking at him from across the common room; Ginny was still clinging to his neck.

"So, tell me about the match! How'd you manage it?" Harry asked, as some of the other Gryffindors drew in around him. Ron began to explain how Demelza Robins had scored two goals right in a row, and how Cho Chang had crashed into the bottom of a goal post after getting hit by one of her own team's Bludgers, leaving Ginny to catch the Snitch. Harry stayed in the common room for a long time, celebrating with his teammates and Hermione, but knew that he would have enjoyed it more had he not been sensing a creeping nervousness about his forthcoming meeting with Draco Malfoy that night. He downed several alcoholic beverages hoping to quell this feeling a little bit, but it ended up only sending him to the bathroom more times than usual.

At a quarter past eleven, there were still at least fifteen people in the common room, playing Exploding Snap, retelling moments in the match, and laughing loudly. Harry began to wonder how he'd be able to exit to meet Malfoy without arousing suspicion. He decided to go up to bed, much to Ron and Hermione's protests; he drew the hangings and sat up, minding his wristwatch and clutching his Invisibility Cloak. At five minutes to midnight, Harry drew the Cloak around himself as silently as possible, and stepped out of bed. He put on his slippers and tiptoed down to the common room, where, he was pleased to see, only two people remained, both apparently asleep and surrounded by empty glass bottles. He removed his Cloak to walk through the portrait hole, and then put it back on after rounding the corner. Then he set off down the stairs to the trophy room.

Though the castle was almost entirely dark, Harry could see that the trophy room was filled with silvery light, bouncing off of the great quantity of reflective glass. When he was about twenty paces from the door, he could see that another figure – a single figure – stood in the shadows.

Harry's heartbeat quickened. So, Malfoy hadn't brought anyone to attack him... He shrugged off the Cloak silently as he stepped into the room. At first they just stood there; Harry could not see Malfoy's face, and he had his hand wrapped around his wand in his cloak pocket.

"Potter," Malfoy said, inquiringly. He stepped forward and inclined his head very slightly to Harry.

Harry raked his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. "Hello, Malfoy," he said.

"Nice try with the elves. Evidently you forgot that I am acutely aware of whom those particular elves are loyal to," Malfoy said, with a teasing coldness. At first Harry said nothing, but when Malfoy opened his mouth to speak again, Harry said,

"You know, if you _are _working for Voldemort, it shouldn't come as a surprise that I'd want you stopped, Malfoy."

"Of course, of course," said Malfoy. "Nor is it a surprise that you're working for Dumbledore. You know, he called me to his office for a little chat recently."

"Oh, er ... what about?" Harry asked, still unsure of Malfoy's angle.

"Well, you know that old man – he asked me if I was doing all right, said I looked ill and had had some word with McGonagall about my Transfiguration marks, but he had something else up his sleeve. I knew it was on some tip-off you'd given him, Potter, because he started casually mentioning the Dark Lord and his _followers_..." Malfoy paused to look at Harry's slippers: he hadn't undressed for bed, but his clothing looked awkward with the addition of the Gryffindor red-and-gold striped slippers. Malfoy himself actually looked sharper than usual: he wore robes monogrammed with silver, which fit his frame better than the Hogwarts uniform. Malfoy seemed to blend in perfectly with the glass and gleaming silver flanked by broad shadows.

"So..." Harry said, imploring Malfoy to continue.

"So," the other boy began loudly, stretching his long arms above his head and moving towards a bench by the wall, "He's trying to get me to say if something's wrong or I feel under pressure, and when I tell him no, he begins this little speech about the Dark Lord, and how he knew him when he was at Hogwarts. 'I wonder, Draco, if you believe that loyalty to Lord Voldemort is anything akin to friendship,' he was saying to me. 'Oh, faithful as his Death Eaters may be, they could never be true friends to Tom Riddle... even as a schoolboy he kept a band of devotees at his side, but never a real friend... I don't believe Lord Voldemort ever knew the meaning and importance of friendship!' And he's saying all this looking me in the eye, as if to say, I know you have no real friends, Draco!"

Towards the end of this tirade, Malfoy's tone became more anguished; he sighed brusquely. Harry was now sitting on the bench, at the opposite end as Malfoy, perched on the very edge of it, as though to get up at any second.

"He told me the same thing," Harry said, remembering Dumbledore's explanation of the roots of the Death Eaters in Hogwarts, followers of Tom Riddle when he was still a young wizard-in-training, already more powerful than half of the teachers in the place. Harry felt sure that whatever powers Draco Malfoy had gained under leadership of his father or even Voldemort, he was neither as cunning nor as malevolent as the young Riddle.

"Anyway," Malfoy went on, "After that, I knew that you'd been telling teachers that you thought I was up to something. That I was trying to carry out some assignment from the Dark Lord within the school."

"I overheard you and Snape at Halloween," Harry said before he could stop himself.

"Yes, that've done it," Malfoy said, smiling darkly.

"Can you even _perform_ Unforgivables?" Harry asked suddenly, having tried to imagine what would have happened if he had let Malfoy use Cruciatus.

"Yes, of _course_, Potter, you're not the only one who receives extra help from allies," he replied irritably.

"And you would have _Crucio_ed me? If I hadn't stopped you?"

"I couldn't have done it, I don't think, against you..." he admitted. "You're quick with those countercurses, sometimes. Snape was really concerned about the one you used. Didn't expect Dumbledore's man to perform any Dark curses..."

"Honestly," Harry said, "I never knew what that curse did. You could have died; that's worse than _Crucio_..."

"The number of injuries the both of us have sustained at each other's hands," Malfoy said, now smiling. "No, these useless years of schooling would not have been quite as fun without you, Potter."

Finally, Harry decided that it had to be said.

"Malfoy... why did you, er... kiss me?"

As Harry said it, both he and Malfoy turned pink.

"Well, Potter, you saw me. I won't pretend I wasn't upset and lonely just then... you know, Dumbledore said it, I don't have any friends to talk to... I was in there talking to _Moaning Myrtle_..." he said bitterly. "And you, well, now that you've grown a bit, you're an attractive chap." He flashed a sarcastic, toothy smile, and Harry, unable to help himself, smiled as well.

"It wasn't the _worst_ kiss I've ever had," he said. It was certainly better than his first slobbery kiss with Cho Chang. Harry realized that he felt quite woozy, like he'd just consumed a large quantity of firewhisky.

"I'm not gay," Harry said, suddenly feeling as though he needed to say it. Malfoy leaned forward, still smiling. Then he slid over on the bench so that he was sitting closer to Harry.

"No matter, Potter," he said, "though your apology in the hospital wing had me hoping..."

"Malfoy, it's too late for us to ever be friends... you have been in allegiance with the wizard who killed my parents, whose horrible disciples murdered my godfather, who has made my life _shit_ since I can remember. If you don't want to kill me anymore, then I guess that's a step in the right direction, but if you're trying to put things right –"

"Don't be foolish, Potter," Malfoy said dismissively. "But we're older now, almost of age, and I think our rivalry ought to ascend to a more intellectual level."

"So... trying to snog me and then using an Unforgivable... that was your strategy for commencing more mature relationship?"

"Well, I wasn't really in my right mind at that moment," Malfoy said. "Nor were you, as you claim, with that curse." He looked at Harry knowingly; he seemed to sense that Harry was remembering his visit to Malfoy's bed the previous night, and the concern he had exercised when he saw that Malfoy had been hurting himself.

"Okay," Harry said, "I was worried about you. I felt sorry for you. I _feel_ sorry for you, here and now. I pity you, Malfoy! You work for someone who might kill you at any moment!"

Malfoy edged a little bit closer to Harry. There were now scarcely two inches between their legs.

"Do you feel sorry for me," Malfoy enquired, "because you think there's good in me?"

"Yes," Harry said firmly, trying to ignore how close Malfoy's face was to his own. "I do, I think you don't have it in you to do whatever it is Voldemort wants you to do."

"I'm glad that witch mended your nose after I stomped it," Malfoy said, now looking very intently at Harry. "You're much better looking with a straight nose. Famous Harry Potter... Quidditch champion, master of heroic feats, and so _handsome_."

Hearing Malfoy talk like this was alarming to Harry, but he couldn't move. Malfoy had swung his arm around the back of the bench, so that it would be touching Harry's shoulders had there been no bench, and he was still smiling roguishly.

Harry considered his position at that moment. Dumbledore had just promised to take him on what could possibly be a series of life-altering missions, Draco Malfoy was working within Hogwarts on Voldemort's orders, and, as though this trophy room were part of some alternate realm, the two boys sat inches away from one another, clearly about to do something rash.

After finishing his mental assessment, Harry stood up.

"This is mad," he said. "I'm going to Dumbledore. You're off your rocker, Malfoy." He strode over to the threshold, then vanished in a sweep of his Cloak.

Harry went back to his dormitory, but he did not sleep. Dean, Seamus, Neville and Ron awoke eventually on Sunday, still in lively moods after their victory in the match. Harry lay with the hangings drawn for as long as possible, until Ron tugged them open at noon.

"Blimey, Harry, come down for brunch!" he insisted. "How on Earth are you still tired?"

"All right, Ron, sorry," he huffed, pulling on his clothes. The two of them joined Hermione and Ginny in the common room and they walked down to Sunday brunch together. Harry found that he was very hungry, but his stomach gave an unpleasant lurch when he immediately caught Malfoy's eye upon entering the Great Hall. He was sitting at the very end of the House table, next to Crabbe and Goyle, looking as sleep-deprived as Harry felt. Harry quickly averted his eyes, but he felt Malfoy's gaze burning into his brain.

"Malfoy isn't looking too good, is he?" Ron remarked as they passed.

"Probably upset about Gryffindor winning the Cup," Ginny said importantly.

"Neither do you, Harry," Hermione pointed out. "Is something up? It sort of seems like you haven't been yourself since that thing with Malfoy."

"It's nothing," Harry said forcefully. "I don't give a damn about Malfoy."

"Never said you did, mate," Ron said, giving him a funny look, and the four of them sat down, Harry rather stiffly, for a delicious Sunday brunch.


End file.
